The Cabin’s Secret
[a short story]
Surrounded by an intoxicating landscape, cloaked with majestic trees, there it is, the cabin. It holds a secret, one that, if shared, will steal the magic, numb its actors.
The cabin feeds the secret, protects it.
The cabin’s description is irrelevant to the story, after all, they disclose the secret in the living room — their complicity becomes alive there. In that room, it (re)born and lives; in there, it dies. Until the next encounter.
They arrive together. It’s only the cabin when experienced by both.
Every other Friday, she meets him at a remote point. From there, they travel on his motorbike to their haven.
The silence imposed by the trip allows the landscape to communicate with them: nature shreds the eyes capture; the inspired smells of flowers, trees, and the refreshing sea breeze, that crosses their path, halfway. Along the way, they taste diffused flavours: sweetness from the pines and flowered bushes or salty spatters from empowered waves thrown against the rocks; their hearing embraces the birds chirping, the sea claiming the waves back, the wind revolving the trees...
Later, before revealing the secret, with their bodies entwined, skin to skin, feeling each other; they will murmur what they felt during the ride. She will tell him how her skin chilled when drops of sea landed on her face, how she cried warm and liberating tears while driving up the hill, when she stood up on the motorcycle, her legs holding her body, her arms opened to the world, breathing as if it was her last gulp. He will turn her face to him, kiss her softly and tell her how he imagined her naked body covered with the yellow flowers that embellish the sides of the road. He will tell her how he resented the falcon that flew above their heads, how its freedom made him want to claim the same.
Arriving at their destination, they relieve themselves of the props that a two-wheel vehicle requires: they take off the helmets, the heavy leather jackets, and their backpacks, which they lay on the floor, near the motorcycle.
Before they enter the cabin, delaying its warmth, they will fulfil a ritual: a walk in its surroundings.
Being Winter, the night falls, carrying icy darkness.
A magnificent full moon and its faithful companions, the stars, adorn their walk. The constellations seem to meet at a particular point on the map: the cabin’s coordinates. Toasting to the secret, they illuminate their path, offering an intermittent dance in the sky.
Aware of the mishaps under their feet, they admire the breathtaking performance. With an urge to reveal their secret under such a marvellous exhibition in the sky, looking in complicity to each other, they resist.
The trail never changes, they walk instinctively, without maps or gear. That hour, exploring the cabin’s surroundings serves several purposes: to expel the other dimension of their lives, the one they don’t have to hide, that they live automated. Now it’s time to tune with serenity, to refine their senses.
This time also serves to absorb, deeply, the vibrant energy of this concealed place.
In the heart of their habitat, they rejoin; breathe each other, see each other.
They are again one for the other, one in the other. Their hungry bodies and souls, twins, some might say, are reunited.
On the walk, they abandon their past and rise in the present — in harmony, living the first emotions of the night. The first of many.
When they arrive, they are ready to enter the cabin. They smile, their secret is about to be revealed.
From his pocket, he takes out the key and opens the robust wooden door, the one that gives them access to an alternative reality. Or is this the actual reality, and everything else a mere adornment of their lives?
Their eyes meet, their smiles are radiant; happiness is touchable.
In a deep breath, holding hands, they enter into their world.
When the door closes, everything else ceases to exist.
Entering the cabin, in slow steps, they don’t break the silence. They internalize the smells, the glimmer, and the sounds without sonances. The transition is executed in slow motion, tuned. As everything in them.
Walking into the living room (where they live this life), he heads to the fireplace, the main component of the scenario: it warms them, feeds the ambience and illuminates the secret. As a timer, the flame dictates the beginning and the end. Immediately lit when they enter the cabin and extinct before the door is locked.
He feeds the fireplace with wood and firelighters, lits it and while he stirs the flame, she stores, in another room, the belongings of the outside world, those who don’t belong in the scenario.
When she returns, she dresses the cabin clothes: warm socks, delicate lingerie— silk, pearl — and while the fire hasn’t warmed up the room, she’s covered with a robe.
He doesn’t have to look to see her: he feels her naked; not just from the clothes of her alien life but worries and thoughts. She is translucent; beautiful. Charmingly seductive.
After ensuring the wood is burning, he too gets rid of the last pieces of evidence from the outside world.
Wearing only shorts and thick socks, he joins her.
Seated on the sofa, eating the meal she has warmed up, they gaze at the intense flame, satisfying their hunger. They talk about the walk, what they saw, little changes in the path, or what they felt.
The topics were never about anything unrelated to the cabin or the secret. Their other life doesn’t belong here (not a spoken or imposed rule, but one agreed in silence).
The melody of the living room is unique: the gentle crackle of wood burning, and, from outside, sounds from nature: wind whistles, owl hoots, and curious animals crawling. And their voices, whispers, and laughs.
The blankets they use to cover themselves lie, folded, on the small wooden bench, on the left side of the fireplace. The plushy white rug calls for them, outstretched at the centre of the living room, it lures them.
But there are still chores and rituals to complete. There’s no need to talk about it: each one knows what to do next.
While he ensures the windows and shutters are locked, she makes tea; flooding the living room with one more stimulus, another sense triggered, another memory revived.
The aroma of fresh tea meets the heated scent of burned wood; it completes the atmosphere.
She serves the tea and carries the mugs, lays them on the fireplace sill, while he extends the blanket to the top of the rug — not at the centre, that space is reserved.
Their eyes meet; smiles emerge.
Their silences say so much.
She removes her robe. Without even having touched her, he made her body temperature increase.
She loves it when he stimulates her like this: with no touch, no words or provocative looks. Only in his presence, here in the cabin, does she feel this visceral heat.
He senses her desire rising, the warmth she emanates through her pores impregnates his.
Delighted, he smiles — she’s getting ready for the secret.
They sit on the rug, holding the mugs; they taste the tea, their gaze is inseparable.
The synesthetic environment merges with them: the rhythmic cracking of the burning wood, its smell; the tea fragrance, and the comfort of the rug in their bodies. They are one.
The presence of one in the other is all they need to rise.
Abandoning the inertia of the outside life, they revive the feelings of this one.
In silence, what silence? Their minds talk between themselves, the bodies claim for each other! they finish the tea, and put the mugs away.
She lays supine on the rug, offering him a sight of her slender body, dressed just in pearl lingerie.
Her long dark hair frames her face. With nothing to tie it, the hair leaves a track on the rug — her body doesn’t end in her skin: her hair, loose by her side, is an extension of her. One more part of herself, one more piece of them.
She offers herself to him: warm, flushed, wrapped in the reflexes of the fire.
She is fire; she has its colours imprinted on her skin, her organs burn, her skin, hot as lava, releases desire towards him. He receives it: she’s vital energy, survival food.
Her image, laying on the rug, enticing him, is the one his mind returns to when faced with the real world.
He breathes her in, lying at her side. He admires her beauty.
Side by side faces close, bound in the scene, absorbed in each other, they are ready to unveil.
They want to tell the secret.
In silence, he travels through her body, superficial touch, slow, tender.
Two weeks is an eternity to his body not having hers! He has physical symptoms for her absence.
Finally, he will feel all the curves of her body, caress each millimetre.
Her smooth skin — chilled on anticipation — burns, anxious for him.
While he navigates on her body, that fraction reacts on its own, requesting more touch, more pressure, more body! Her arm pressures his hand; her legs tangle with his; she elevates her body in panted reaction.
She is touched, smelled, absorbed, her body is recognized; intimately felt. One echo of the other, one mirror of the other.
Their eyes look deep; their gaze is crystalline. Belonging.
Words are useless to translate what they feel, need or desire. He is in her, she in him. They are whole.
Merged, they reveal their secret.
If you enjoyed this story, I invite you to read a micro-story: